


Bound by the Dusk

by DatSonyat, Roxainn



Category: Made in Abyss (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Black Market headcanons, Caretaking, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Manipulation, Gentle Sex, Gueira's past is fabricated, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sexual Abuse, Praise Kink, References to Drugs, Seduction, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DatSonyat/pseuds/DatSonyat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roxainn/pseuds/Roxainn
Summary: Once a year, the Black Market's auction house opens its doors, ushering in the elite to grant its guests the exotic and terrible wonders of the Abyss, but to Gueira it's as nightmarish — perhaps more — than the Curse itself. After all, there is very little Bondrewd wouldn't do in the pursuit of science and further unlocking secrets of the bottomless chasm... and his loyal shadow is the one left behind to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Gueira/Bondrewd (Made in Abyss)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

The lacquered parquet creaked under his boots as he walked, the sound of his footsteps echoing loudly until he reached the main hall. The Black Market's hidden in plain sight mansion, secretive though its activities were, was an endless maze of opulent marble floors and walls, polished to a blinding shine beneath candlelit candelabras.

All of it made Gueira's head ache. 

Too many ladders and unnecessary stairs bothered his delver's instincts. The air smelled of fragrant, cloying perfume and fresh fruits — he recognized the familiar aroma of those that grew in the Inverted Forest. 

It was usually quite noisy after an auction, but today’s meeting had seemed especially crowded and boisterous. Droves of finely dressed people gathered in the banquet hall to brag about the relics they bought, gossip like the snobbish rich do, and recline with drinks in hand after such a busy night. Gueira doubted half of these people had ever stepped foot within the Abyss, his quiet scoff lost among the churning sea of voices rising and falling like crashing waves during a storm. 

But there was an edge to it, something eerie — maybe ominous. Gueira caught more than one man glaring directly at him. He scowled under his mask and stuffed his hands deeper into the pockets, cradling the small, precious object within, running his thumb across indentations he’d long memorized but never dared touch, ignoring the babble of voices surrounding him. 

Gueira _hated_ them all.

He hated the false smiles, the shrill, mocking laughs, the way ladies and gentlemen stared at him, appraising him like another relic to be auctioned off. The latter irritated him even more with their constant gawking at his mask. Priceless, bestowed upon him by Bondrewd, _his_ — however fairly or… unfairly earned. Tearing his heated gaze away from the onlookers, his eyes swept across the vast chamber again, blinking away the ocean of gratuitous, glittering lights.  
  
How stupidly rich were these fools?  
  
The very gleam of the diamonds they wore didn’t escape Gueira’s disgust. The looks they gave him were judgemental, predatory even. Politicians, criminals — as if there were _any_ difference — famous artists and bored aristocracy — they all were the same to him. The pressure of their unwanted attention wore worse on him than the Curse of the Abyss.  
  
“Strange mask. Who — _what_ is that?”  
  
“Him? Just one of Bondrewd’s.”  
  
“Lord of Dawn? Even so, it’s — _he’s_ hardly—”  
  
On and on they droned as they always did. 

Gueira heard their murmurs as he made his way through the dining tables, trying not to pay them any mind. They weren’t worth his effort. If anything, one of the advantages of being a Praying Hand meant he was often invisible to others, nothing more than an extension of the Lord of Dawn, a mere shadow of his master.  
  
Unfortunately he found himself alone, dealing with the growing weight of his own thoughts and mounting fears, overthinking every word and whisper that pierced his concentration.  
  
Bondrewd had left him shortly after the auction ended in the company of his… business partners.  
  
To call them that… Gueira despised the term, scowl deepening. The heat of bodies packed tightly together mimicked the silent anger seething in his chest. Scum, the lowest of the low, greasy vultures, the lot of them. “Business,” as long as Bondrewd deemed it so, but to Gueira they would forever be filth unworthy of the Lord of Dawn’s… _attention_.  
  
Yet they delivered without fail, supplying all his master desired when requested, feeding his insatiable thirst for knowledge of the Abyss — something each and every Praying Hand strived for, strived to give Bondrewd.  
  
These people gave him something Gueira could not. 

A fleeting surge of nausea passed through him at the thought. Of what Bondrewd willingly did _with_ them — for them, for himself, and by extension, _humanity_ . Gueira’s skin crawled, the din of mindless chattering grating to his ears. Of course Bondrewd couldn’t simply swap bodies in such a situation if they had the sheer nerve to — no, he couldn’t stand to think of such an outcome. Sickening, and his master wouldn’t allow it, surely…?  
  
It wasn’t that Gueira believed his master helpless or weak. The farthest thing from the truth, really, he thought, squeezing past a group of obnoxiously shrieking women — their shocked gasps at his perceived rudeness settled into nervous silence as he passed without a word or gesture — when Bondrewd seldom needed to resort to violence, his charisma a subtle, ingenious weapon in and of itself. His sincere words alone had the power to bring others to their knees, his sway undeniable.  
  
And Gueira worried for him regardless, wanting to needlessly protect a man infinitely his greater. A man who held his complete respect, and still all he foolishly wanted was to fulfill his duty as a Praying Hand, to help his master.  
  
(Who was more than capable of protecting himself, but could Gueira admit it when Bondrewd called upon him specifically?)

Thus he marched on in search of his master, perhaps naively so, through a labyrinth more alien than anything in the Fifth Layer, filled with equally foreign beings to him. How had someone like _him_ ended up _here_ ? Why did his master choose him for this task yet again?  
  
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this time. Bondrewd’s smooth manner could charm them with ease. It would mean less… _marks_ , less… Gueira trailed off in his head, flushed and ashamed with himself.  
  
It would be better this time.  
  
“Would you like to have a drink with us?” 

_What?_ Teasing yet charismatic, but a ludicrous question directed at him all the same.  
  
Startled, Gueira halted abruptly, posture stiff, and turned towards the brave speaker who’d sauntered out from a nearby corridor — a young man in elegant finery, all smiles and carefree charm, and shorter than him by three heads — his expression one of foul surprise and complete disdain, lips curled into a near snarl. Yet again, his mask served as his saviour, a small comfort in a hideous place the likes of this, for Gueira couldn’t — _wouldn’t_ — disgrace Bondrewd’s name.  
  
His master placed such deep trust in him, bringing him here, after all — to watch his back, exposed as he was in these situations of his own making.  
  
Would _he_ like to have a drink with _them?_ ****

Gueira truly didn't know what to say. A lifetime ago he only dreamt of joining a wealthy company of high calibre and prestige the likes of this, to swathe himself in extravagant velvets and silks, and drink the luxury wines they now readily offered him.  
  
But that all changed — _he_ changed — the second he’d met Bondrewd, his fate sealed the moment he stepped foot into the gaping maw of the Abyss.  
  
He didn’t know how to answer the man, didn’t care to. After so many years in the company of masked men who relied on body language and personal tics, he’d forgotten how to read faces. It wasn’t often he needed to.  
  
Was this guy joking? Was he just curious and wanted to gain insight into the mysterious followers of the Lord of Dawn?  
  
So many questions arose at once in Gueira’s mind and he hesitated, having trouble containing himself. His fingers twitched, wanting nothing more than to push the pretentious bastard away. He wasn't exactly fond of most people, and he especially hated being forced to tolerate those who refused to keep their distance.  
  
Fools who hadn’t learned well enough not to stick their hands through the bars of a cage, and as if on cue, a long finger prodded his shoulder, awaiting his answer with impatience. Judging by the wear on the flesh of his fingers, the stranger was probably a musician of some sort, looking for relics that could produce the otherworldly sounds of the Abyss. 

There was a gift for everyone in the deepest depth of the netherworld, if one held the resolve to delve deep enough. 

“Are you even human?” another man asked in derision, his manner seeming a little curt. 

Gueira honestly didn’t know the answer nor did he care to.

Not worth it, he decided. Gueira ignored what he considered an annoying obstacle, determined to turn a deaf ear to them permanently, and strode past the man silent as a shadow befitting a Praying Hand.  
  
A brief snort of laughter and barely restrained chuckles wafted through the air, and Gueira locked his jaw together, struggling to convince himself to forget the continuing mockery behind his back. Perhaps he was just overexaggerating their reaction in his usual manner.  
  
Why should he care what that slacker thought of him, an overly rich man destined to not once descend to the First Layer, much less anything beyond it?  
  
He shouldn’t care what anyone thought of him — only his fellows and master would ever matter.  
  
But more and more these intrusive thoughts plagued his restless mind, growing stronger as the days passed. 

If it weren’t for his duties, Gueira would’ve spent last night drinking the cheapest alcohol he could find in the whole damned place. The expensive stuff wasn’t to his tastes and cheap swill got him drunk just as well. Idiotic to drink when he was meant to act as Bondrewd’s back-up, so to speak.  
  
Instead, he smoked and watched the snow fall from the sky, imagining himself back in Idofront, waiting for Bondrewd’s return from an expedition. He was used to being surrounded by eldritch abominations and other delvers bold enough to take on the mantle of Praying Hand. Here, on the surface, he felt like a fish thrown out of water, dealing with monsters in human skin. 

Was he really Bondrewd’s first choice in this venture? How was he of all people best suited for an environment he had no experience in?  
  
Gueira slipped his hand into his pocket, grasping the rounded, textured treasure, squeezing it lightly. It brought him a measure of comfort, however little.

Gueira had stopped counting the minutes — hours? It felt more like hours — it took to finally find a way to the master bedchambers at the end of the banquet hall. _Finally._ He walked down a dark and empty hallway, pace brisk, noting how the décor barely changed, still tasteless, pompous, and excessively adorned like everything else he laid sight on. The lack of light made it easier on the eyes, though, he was certain of that.  
  
This part of the building brought an air of familiarity and sense of wrongness, decorated as it was with statues of the underworld’s beasts. Soft lights flared along the walls where relics sat behind thick sheets of glass, a stark contrast to prying them out between slabs of stone in total darkness with monsters shrieking around them if they were unlucky enough.  
  
A large aquarium illuminated the path behind him, filled with Kazura Squids and lined with gold filigree, inset with various gems cut to perfection. What little light caught them brought them to life in brilliant flashes that screamed wrong to his senses.  
  
It just seemed… easy, opposite to everything he’d been taught.  
  
The statues further upped the sense of wrongness.  
  
Gueira passed by a granite Corpse-Weeper, an Ottobas with shimmering ornaments of golden Flowers of Fortune, and an Orb Piercer with mistakes in its form. Typical. Whoever sculpted the statue missed a few additional holes in the head of that particularly vile monster. Well, not so many brave souls survived an encounter with a rabid, overgrown porcupine, Gueira supposed he could give them a pass on that much. 

Plenty of the other statues had similar mistakes too. Too many eyes or missing legs, wrong proportions. Those naturally terrifying creatures appeared distorted by warped nightmares.  
  
If only he could laugh at the overwhelming irony those mistakes stirred up in him.  
  
A large baroque door loomed before him, the wood dark and slick with polish. Gold inlays ran through it like tiny flickering streams of water, converging at a detailed lock. A single deep blue jewel sat within the doorknob, an exact match to the key in Gueira’s pocket.  
  
This was the right door.  
  
Ice settled in his stomach and his heart raced in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. A cold sweat enveloped him and he pushed horrid replays of what perversity had occurred beyond the threshold from his head, frozen in place.  
  
Gueira lingered for a time far longer than was professional — _appropriate_ — trying to force his panic down, trying to erase the images of what could’ve happened from his racing mind. Vivid flashes of pale skin bound by dark ropes darted across his vision, long welts and deep red scratches following in their wake. He shook his head, the curtains of his mask flapping almost like slaps against his cheeks. Thinking of his master in such a way…  
  
Gueira slipped a bejeweled key from his pocket, one Bondrewd had given him at the beginning of the auction. He turned it over in his palm, anxiety gnawing away at him as he twirled it between his fingers with increasing speed.  
  
He exhaled and steadied himself. He _had_ to. Gueira told himself he was doing it for his master’s own good, chanting the mantra internally over and over. He told himself it was all for Bondrewd’s sake, not his own, not his selfish desire to not be left alone with his conflicting feelings.  
  
For his master. He cupped the thing in his pocket, running his fingers over the miniature ones in gentle downward strokes. It wouldn’t be long now.  
  
Gueira inserted the key into the intricate, golden lock. 

The loud creak of the door opening broke the deafening silence in the room.  
  
Had Bondrewd been sleeping? A new, slow-diffusing panic welled up in him and his heart sunk.

Guilt coiled in his gut at the thought of waking his master, but to his relief, no sound came… only dead quiet. He tiptoed through the spacious apartments, treading lightly so as not to disturb anything, glancing over the furniture and floor.  
  
He had to marvel amidst the trepidation crawling through his veins. He’d yet to touch the second floor and somehow these rooms had been designed to the utmost luxury, overflowing with precious metals, gems, fabrics, antiques, and even some relics locked behind iron vines curled around each other in an artistic cage.  
  
He’d have sold his soul once upon a time to step foot inside a palace like this. Stepping over an empty bottle, he released a quiet breath in realization, one he hadn’t fully shook yet. In truth, the way he became Praying Hand was very similar to what people of far away lands may call a deal with the devil, but why care about the vain speeches of those who believed in false gods?

The curtains were closed despite it being midday, giving the illusion of night, or maybe safety to a delver. So little light remained as Gueira crept through the lavish sitting rooms and bedrooms, searching for a familiar silhouette. With a heavy heart and a steady hand, he walked forward, his skin tingling and vision blurred as if his eyes refused to see what was coming. 

Gueira sloshed through the darkness, feeling uneasy at the sight of yet another empty room. He felt somewhat ashamed looking under tables or in the corners, but based on his experience Bondrewd could be anywhere — the man did not care where to find proper rest. His wretched good for nothing “companions” weren’t bothered where they left their plaything either. Gueira shook his head, preferring not to dwell on the past, but to focus on the here and now. He was thinking too much for a shadow.

He paused near the ladder to the second floor, wondering if his master made this far by himself. Which meant he was less… _damaged_ this time. If there was even the slightest chance that he was fine, Gueira would believe it. Right? Enough with this miserable self-pity and pathetic sadness. 

Counting every stair, he ascended to the next set of rooms. For a moment his worries and fears were replaced with an unsettling terror of the Curse, even in a place like this — civilized through and through, Gueira was haunted by the chill breath of the underworld. He sighed inwardly, trying to suppress the primal kind of fear that messed with him even on the other side of the world. 

Gueira’s eyes flew open when he noticed a dim violet line. The light of it was faint, almost drained and looked like it was about to disappear in the surrounding gloom. 

A rush of relief coursed through him when he at last lay eyes on Bondrewd. He hadn’t been difficult to find, thankfully. The vice threatening to crush his chest over the last few hours loosened slightly upon seeing his master.

Sprawled across a couch in a position that looked anything but comfortable lay the Lord of Dawn himself.  
  
Gueira struggled to withhold a wince at the sight, fresh guilt bubbling up in his stomach. Bondrewd looked as if someone had carelessly tossed his body there like an abandoned toy or he’d crawled and passed straight out on the first soft surface he could find before losing consciousness. One arm hung freely to the floor and near the end of a rumpled sleeve, Gueira noticed long, red bruises twined about his wrist. His cravat was nowhere to be seen.

Indeed, how naïve he was to expect a different outcome. It was always the same. 

Gueira listened to Bondrewd’s breathing for some time. It was a light sound, nearly inaudible and muffled by his helmet. He gazed down at the sleeping man and yet again marveled at how vulnerable he could look without layers of armor. How odd it was to see Bondrewd taking a nap, a man who hated the limitations of mortal flesh and tended to jump into another body in order to continue working, but couldn’t risk revealing his true nature in such a populated place, especially after his body was seen by others in detail.

Even though Gueira knew better than anyone how deeply inhuman Bondrewd was at his core, he couldn’t help but want to hug him, the nonsensical urge intensifying as he gave his master another thorough examination. 

Bondrewd’s clothes were a mess, torn in some places and covered in dried liquids he wished he couldn’t identify. Gueira swallowed his revulsion, a lightning bolt of unnecessary fury striking deep. Awful, opportunistic scavengers, but ones that his master had sought out.  
  
Discomfort carved a hole in his chest and made its home there, heightening his anxiety and amplifying his guilt. There on Bondrewd’s neck was a considerably sized mark, mottled an angry red and darkening purple, its origins clear as the crystals of the Fourth Layer and Guiera tried to avoid thinking about who’d done it and… _how_.  
  
He tried not to picture every version of what Bondrewd had done that night. He felt ridiculous for continuing to let himself think in an inappropriate way about his master, but every bruise, every scar on pale skin and small dents at the base of his mask fuelled his imagination. 

What made it even worse, in every bruise he saw an opportunity to touch Bondrewd without any fear of being caught. Every injury was an excuse to caress his master’s naked skin with his fingers. He could convoy him to the bathroom and help him undress while looking at his exposed body, pretending to just check his state one more time like any good servant would.

Reading red lines on his arms, he could see how exactly Bondrewd was tied up and that vision alone was bringing him to the verge of… _something._ Gueira tried not to be attracted to his master. He really did. But he was so close he felt the heat radiating off Bondrewd's body, thinking it felt a bit warmer than usual. 

Gueira fought with himself for a moment before lowering a tentative hand, reaching for Bondrewd, the urge to just... _touch_ him strong. Touch him in any way. Soothe him in his sleep, maybe. So utterly _selfish_ , but only… only a touch. His fingertips met the rigid, cool frame of his master’s helmet, rudely reminding him that he had _no_ idea what he was doing.  
  
His hand shot back to himself, gripping his other until his knuckles trembled with the force of it. 

Gueira regretted failing his master in ways he never should have thought he had the right to even _attempt_ . Kneeling before the couch, he studied his reflection in the lustrous, black mirror of Bondrewd’s mask.  
  
Just a blue line.  
  
That was all that left of his face after he took the robe of Praying Hand. He tried to convince himself that there was nothing behind his own mask, certainly not of a face of a man who was the same kind as those revolting people he hated so much.

Gueira traced the lines of his mask and sighed, tugging up a blanket and gently laying it overtop the prone Bondrewd, placing a pillow under his limp head. Rising from his knees, he observed his master a time longer before leaving the room to prepare a warm meal and a hot tub of fresh water for when he awoke. At the last moment, Gueira caught sight of an unfamiliar light hidden within the crook of his master’s arm. 

In his other arm, Bondrewd clutched at something, hiding it like a child with his comforting stuffed toy.

Warmth lit within Gueira.  
  
Smiling, he gazed at Bondrewd for a second once more, at a loss before realizing he’d hesitated too long. Could he use the word selfish again?  
  
Gueira was embarrassed to admit it, but he liked seeing him like this. 

Exhausted. Tired. Depending on him.

Almost human.

Gueira hated that deep inside he wasn’t so different from people that he despised so much. People that fed his sinful thoughts and made him realize how flawed he was. He received his mask — his status by pure luck. He never deserved to follow, stay alongside, let alone taking care of someone like Bondrewd. 

Gueira watched him for a few moments before he sighed and left the room to prove that he was better than this. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya everyone! DatSonyat here, and I wanted to sincerely apologize to you all and the wonderful mind behind Dusk, Roxainn, for how long it took to get this out. That's solely on me and health issues I've been having. Regardless, this story is being treated as a priority until its completion. There should not be a lapse like this again provided my health remains as stable as possible. If you see other fics from me, those are being worked on between chapters, otherwise my focus is fully on Dusk and seeing it done. 💖 
> 
> Please give mad credit to Roxainn too! She's doing the rich lore and worldbuilding in Dusk and giving me the chapters to work on. This is very much a two-person effort and she went above and beyond by providing extra for this chapter due to my health.

The kitchen was nicely stocked when Gueira walked in. There were all kinds of groceries — many delicacies of the surface and rare produce of the Abyss, expertly handcrafted condiments among them. Of course, he could send for a chef — they wouldn’t dare turn down a request made on behalf of the Lord of Dawn — but he wanted to treat Bondrewd with his own cooking. 

Perhaps another selfish desire of his, but chances like this were rare. When would an opportunity to do something special for his master present itself like this again? 

He spent some time examining the fresh fruits and vegetables, meats that belonged to ordinary animals and underworld beasts, rare spices and unique sweets to figure out what he wanted to make and frowned at the abundance of selection. Although Bondrewd himself would be more than happy with type-4 ration bars, he didn’t care about the taste of whatever food as long as it provided nutrition enough.

Going from shelf to shelf with keen eyes, filling his arms with luxurious choices Gueira paused as he caught a sliver of white in a nearby trash can — the small object he’d noticed more than familiar.

A replica of Bondrewd’s White Whistle. 

His brows gradually drew together the closer he examined it. Peering down at it, the poor thing was heavily damaged, with its sharp nails chipped off and base covered in dirty fingerprints.

Like the living trash themselves couldn’t stand to wait a moment longer in defiling something so sacred. Then again, such was the nature of a “false idol,” so to speak. Bondrewd disliked the fake White Whistles created for charades exactly like this one.

It was entirely possible he’d thrown it out himself. It had served its purpose. Gueira wouldn't be shocked to discover it. 

Gueira’s mood, uplifted since he’d found Bondrewd, plummeted along with his heart. He’d struggled to be at peace with his thoughts, fought hard against them, yet a single reminder of what his master had put himself through ruined him again. With immense effort, he turned his focus back on cooking, the savoury scent of it filling his nose as he worked, but eventually his mind drifted to the past and how it began.

Out of all things that Bondrewd ever did, sleeping with others for relics, promotions or coverage for his research was the most harmless one. 

But something about it made Gueira’s insides churn. Why did this of all things feel so wrong?

He turned a blind eye to the nature of his master’s experimentation. He cared little about him luring orphans to what he and the other Praying Hands had nicknamed the death pit — and using them as lab rats. For without Bondrewd, they would simply die on the streets anyways, but at least in Idofront their lives served a higher purpose. 

One man's sunset is another man's dawn. Gueira himself wasn’t a saint and blaming Bondrewd would’ve been hypocrisy at its best.

He was vaguely aware that what he was feeling was jealousy. But there were more to it than that.

Some twisted part of him enjoyed his duties for all the wrong, depraved reasons. He craved every bit of Bondrewd’s closeness, but could only dream of it in the Abyss where Bondrewd was an invincible White Whistle with no weakness and Gueira was nothing. 

Nothing but a random Praying Hand. 

At first he thought it was pure lust. He had never expected to find himself in something remotely resembling a romantic relationship, not to mention with someone like Bondrewd. But it was impossible to pull his mind away from what could’ve corrupted his thoughts towards his master to the point of waking up in a cold sweat, stunned at what in the Abyss he’d just witnessed in his dreams.

Flashes of pale skin, scars, half, hastily opened clothing, knowing hands beckoning him forward...

So many men in one enclosed space, and sooner or later his libido had to strike. He didn’t know how other Praying Hands dealt with the urge. He only heard that the Abyss warped them to such an extent that they naturally lost sexual desires or suppressed it with meds. 

Some darker rumors swirling about suggested that those who put a hand on the test subjects were forever converted to Auto Mode. Gueira wondered if Bondrewd took such actions because he still possessed the last remnants of his humanity or mercy for the children, or he merely needed to keep them in a perfect mental state. 

Still, Gueira tried to hold on to the idea that he’d gone too long without a woman, and it was all to blame to the Abyss and Zoaholic playing with his mind. A few good nights in a brothel would cure him… right?

Even so, fantasizing about the most gorgeous of women didn’t stop the longing he felt, nor the… lust. 

Every now and then, he'd let himself indulge in long looks from afar, mesmerized by the way Bondrewd moved with regal grace, his long tail waving in the air behind him, trailing flashes of violet light. He swallowed, flushing beneath his mask, staring intently into the hot pan. His master wasn’t like other men — jaded Black Whistle and ex mercenaries — he was well-mannered, elegant and weirdly alluring. How someone who usually doesn’t show a single patch of skin can be so… 

Gueira suppressed a shudder, the memory of Bondrewd’s skilled hands once tending to his wounds like ghostly caresses fluttering across his skin. The concern in his voice as he stitched a gash into little more than a thin red line — a scar for Gueira to secretly treasure. Bondrewd’s art sewn into his very flesh. His master’s dignified beauty and his caring tone… it was almost as if… 

No, it couldn’t be. 

Perhaps it wasn’t genuine affection, Gueira kept reminding himself again and again, absentmindedly shifting the pan to keep it from burning. He just needed a good vacation on the surface in the company of pretty girls.

Thinking back on it, his first vacation happened at the end of year — and Bondrewd invited him to the Black Market auction. Gueira couldn’t tell if he was subtly mocking him over the way he’d joined the Praying Hands not so long ago, but couldn’t turn down his new master. His fears didn’t last terribly long, once he saw the glory of a place once forbidden to him. He’d been excited like a small child. How charmed he’d been by the decadent interiors, people resembling royalty, their intricate dresses, their accents, delicious food and powerful relics. He’d never seen anything like this in his past life. 

But his happy, carefree mood didn’t last long.

“Gueira, can I trust you to aid me tonight? I would deeply appreciate you keeping this close to you — only you. It would be,” Bondrewd paused, his words taking on a strange cadence, contemplating how best to continue, “invaluable to me, if you did so.” He stroked Gueira’s chest, fingers flexing against the hidden pocket beneath his hand. Standing on his toes before Gueira could lean down for him, he murmured, “Keep it safe.”

How could he refuse? Gueira thought, the second he _could_ think again, thrown off by his master’s sudden intimacy. A task just for him, one only _he_ could do? With that, Bondrewd gave him a small satchel and a racing heart — for more than one reason.

His task sounded so easy, yet so wrong. Bondrewd had a hidden worry in the depths of his smooth voice — something that Gueira never heard from him before.

The reason would grow clearer shortly. 

During one of the lavish parties after the auction, some of the guests approached Bondrewd with concern or curiosity or... _whatever_ they wanted of him. They circled around him, coming uncomfortably closer, casually ignoring all proper etiquette. What really ground on Gueira nerves, though, was that several of them kept breaking their distance and acted stranger than usual. 

Bondrewd was polite and friendly as he always was, the picture of the perfect gentleman, but for some reason their gazes became hungrier and hungrier… insatiable and out of place, better suited to back alleys and slums. One of the guests dared to reach forward, squeezing his slender waist in a manner that journalists would call scandalous — if anyone allowed those filthy rats to ever step into the Black Market. 

And his master yielded to them.

Soon, another hand adorned with massive gold rings on each fat, short finger laid on Bondrewd’s shoulder, patting him — no, not like a friend or a good aquistance, but like an exotic pet.

Gueira clenched his fists and moved to tear them off, but an unseen force took hold of him and pushed him out of the room, almost slamming him against the wall. His own limbs betrayed him under the orders of Zoaholic. Panic surged through Gueira, shocked and unsure of what to do. He wanted to interrupt whatever the fuck this disrespect was, but Bondrewd’s instructions were clear — follow his tasks to the letter and keep _the thing_ safe. 

With a sick feeling twisting in his gut, Gueira began to suspect what Bondrewd actually gave him, but… how — _why_ in the hell would he give it to him? He of all Praying Hands, just why? 

Sleep never came to him, though his eyes burned, unblinking and dry, limbs tense and coiled, awaiting an attack never to come. Not to him, at least, and his jaw ached from clenching it so hard. 

It was almost a relief to feel it, a familiar — but weakened — urge in his body, compelling him to rise, to puppet his feet forward, one after the other.

Bondrewd called.

The memories of how he made it to the right room remained fragmented to this day, like his own brain wanted to erase that part of his life for his own sanity.

But everything past the foreboding entrance into a cold room darker than the void appeared before his eyes as clear as though he witnessed it yesterday. Unforgettable, unerasable. 

Utterly nauseating. 

Bondrewd lay on the floor, slumped over himself yet fully displayed, completely nude, with only his helmet intact. A trail of red lipstick painted his abdomen and descended over his pronounced hip, following the line of his pelvic bone. Deep marks on his chest so vivid in hue that they still appeared fresh. Crescent moons left by curved fingernails covered his hips and thighs. Dried blood and splatters of cum littered his body. 

Mind blank, eyes nearly sightless, Gueira called, but he didn't answer.

What had they _done?_

His once beautiful master… shattered by this godforsaken pack of curs.

Lost and afraid, alone with no one to trust, let alone call for backup — so unlike Idofront where they had each other’s backs — he’d gathered Bondrewd with trembling hands and carried him through a seemingly endless hall. The hall spun and warped, his eyes playing tricks on him as he gasped for air, lungs unable to take in enough. Time enough he had through dizzying vision to leave his master safely resting on a bed once he’d made it back to the apartment, barely making it on hurried, unsteady feet to the bathroom. Gueira practically collapsed in front of the toilet, dry heaves wracking his form before violently vomiting out the bitter remains of those not so long ago delicious meals he’d praised so much. Soaked in sweat and shaking, he regained his footing after his stomach stopped turning and stepped into the shower, where he stayed under streams of ice cold water, until he felt like some semblance of himself again. 

Gueira almost gagged at those hideous memories, shuddering at how frequently they visited him in nightmares. His mouth set into a grim line, bordering on a grimace. Worse, they often continued as wet dreams — except _he_ was the one bestowing such marks upon Bondrewd, softer and prettier though they were, and the marks Bondrewd would leave on him… Was he insane? Would his master ever allow such a thing? His marks on Bondrewd… Heat coiled in his gut, thighs tensing against his will. Even now Gueira couldn’t deny the shameful arousal of having him naked, defenseless in his arms, allowing his master to curl up against him leeching the warmth.

But allowing himself those conflicting thoughts now of all times? Horrible, disgraceful. 

So he tried to distract himself by making the most difficult of meals, drowning his feelings in complex but mundane tasks. This much he could do for Bondrewd, and took pride in it. Salads with dozens of ingredients, a few different kinds of meat prepared in a special manner, hard boiled Hammerbeak eggs spiced by the delver’s ever faithful Eternal Fortunes and the highest quality herbs his limited tastes could discern from the overwhelming amount spread out before him.

How much Gueira had learned since becoming Bondrewd’s shadow, he considered. Finishing off the tantalizing contents of the pan, most satisfied with it, and reached for a paring knife. To think his hands were now capable of this — he wouldn’t have believed himself a few years ago.The first time he cared for his master, he couldn’t cook anything but simple toast, and even then the slices ended up burnt.

Such had been his lot in life.

Now each part of the fruit came apart under his knife seamlessly. He sliced thin silk-like peel as if it was the easiest job in the world, then diced the fleshy, aromatic pulp into small perfectly identical cubes.

In the next moment, those skillful hands weren’t entirely his, the sudden sensation of muscles moving of their own volition as if the fibres themselves were little more than condensed marionette strings, his very blood impelling him away from his preparation and memories he’d been absorbed in. His vision blackened and swam with static as his arms twitched, and Gueira almost faded away, like a stranger — puppet — in his own skin. 

Bondrewd awoke.

Gueira had no choice but to abandon breakfast — this labyrinth of halls be damned, he cursed them and himself, all of the ridiculous rooms and corridors better suited to a true maze along with his selfish wish to bury his mind in work. He’d wasted too much time dealing with obnoxious, surface-dwelling fools and trying to find Bondrewd amongst the large array of overly spacious, richly filled rooms unsuited for the two of them alone, but such was the “generosity” of the Black Market when it came to an esteemed guest. 

Sure, he believed his master wouldn’t be disappointed over such a minor oversight on his part, but Gueira wanted nothing more than to watch him eat and enjoy something made specially for him. To care for his master and be acknowledged in return. More than that — he couldn’t wring his hands if he tried — he coveted Bondrewd’s praise, to be told what a good and perhaps… _worthy_ Praying Hand he was. Something, no, that was wrong, _validation_ only his master could give him. 

Frustrated, Gueira left the kitchen with a stilted gait. 

He walked back into the spread of rooms, preparing himself for the ladder, but a soft voice he’d not heard since the previous night greeted him from his side.

“Good day, Gueira.”

Surrounded by darkness, Bondrewd sat on a big, white sofa, one leg resting atop the other in his typical refined fashion, his helmet on a marble table nearby. 

It would always be strange, even after all this time, seeing Bondrewd without his mask. As if his identity sat on the table with his helmet. Shadows swept across his entire face, the dim light from the window outlining his high cheekbones and messy, wet hair. Gueira couldn’t see what expression he held, but he could admire a pair of beautiful green eyes, like twin emeralds shining in the dark, piercing straight through him.

He’d never believed that cliche, often romanticised line until meeting the Lord of Dawn.

Shiny drops of water clung to his dewy skin and shimmering hair, and Bondrewd had already dressed in the clothing Gueira prepared for him. Stray droplets dripped from his hair and slid down his exposed skin, disappearing into his black shirt — which meant he’d taken his bath.

Without Gueira’s help.

Something cold and ugly lodged itself in his chest, feelings he had no right to. He should be happy Bondrewd wasn’t injured so badly as to rely on him this time — the hallmark of a good servant. 

And he wasn’t, not in this moment, with his skin prickling and resentful of the situation, and frankly… robbed. His purpose, his rare moments of time spent alone with his vulnerable master — gone.

Act the good servant. 

“Nice to see you’re in good shape, master,” Gueira lied, maintaining his pleasant, polite as possible tone, unsurprised by Bondrewd’s equally good spirit. Could anything break the man? He doubted it, following the sleek lines of Bondrewd’s chosen body without thought, beads of water tempting his imagination. What would they feel and taste like under his tongue? How different than a woman—now was _not_ the time...

If his master sensed his lie, he didn’t bother addressing it. Instead, he appraised him with concern. “Gueira, my, that injury of yours. Is the fault mine?” Bondrewd’s vibrant eyes honed in on his arm, his frown subtle, but there nonetheless. “Hm, how rude of me.” His gaze softened, then took on a gleam Gueira knew all too well. Intrigued, but why now?

His voice sounded so soothing and gentle. Consoling. As if it was Gueira himself who spent the entire night pleasing spoilt rich men. 

Only now did Gueira notice the streaks of red blood leaking from his arm. Nothing more than a knife cut when his body was shaking under Zoaholic’s influence. Hardly a big deal.

”I didn’t notice. It doesn't hurt, sir,” he shrugged it off easily. He’d clean and dress the wound later, though a secret, guilt-ridden part of him wished to feel his master’s experienced hands on him once more, however brief. Wiping away the blood in caring strokes and bandaging him with the care and attention he’d graciously given before. 

Bondrewd would have none of it today, it seemed. “Come now, what a wonderful opportunity to try one of the amazing artifacts I received today.” The beginnings of a smile lit his features like a beacon in the dark. Did one truly need light if they stood beside Bondrewd? 

But that light was far from directed at him, if he was deserving of it in the first place. A deep scowl laid on Gueira’s face under his mask. To be so lost in someone enthralled with the Abyss, inescapable and unerasable despite not being in the cursed hole. What irony. 

“Sir?” Gueira asked, inclining his head, to which Bondrewd simply met with a wave of his arms, reaching for something unseen. 

Bondrewd slid a small, shiny object out from his pocket. Held between pale fingers, it appeared a cracked, pearl-sized orb, almost a crystalline crescent moon where it shattered open like a geode, wrapped in gold ornament swirling in a tear drop pattern. A beautiful piece of jewelry, yes, it could be considered a masterpiece by those standards, but as a relic? To Gueira, it was juvenile and unpolished, more like a cheap shard of broken tinfoil in comparison to a creation of the Abyss, albeit the artifact looked weirdly unfinished.

“Lovely, is it not?” Bondrewd prompted, his unmasked adoration colouring his tone. His joy grew more and more evident the longer he beheld it, enamoured. 

How his master unknowingly — or knowingly — tested his resolve. Pretending would get him nowhere and Bondrewd was already eager to enlighten him, maybe demonstrate. 

“Yes, sir, it’s… pretty” — could he sound any more stupid or uninterested? — “I mean,” he backtracked, attempting to staunch the blood of his cut as he searched for the right words, the correct tone, anything to prove his interest to his master, “it looks expensive, well, for the surface, but what does it… do, exactly?”

 _Why did you do this to yourself over something so strangely cheap?_ Gueira wished to ask, but dared not. 

Gueira wasn’t good at defining a relic’s class, unlike people who grew up in Orth and learned this art from a very young age. However, nothing about this one seemed interesting and he had no idea what about it made his master so excited.

Maybe it was a mystery of novelty that appealed to him so? The light of the relic shone like a star in Bondrewd’s reflective eyes. He looked so very human. Above that, like a kid fascinated by a long lost toy he rediscovered in the backyard. 

It warmed Gueira’s heart, and it was such a delight to see him like this, yet he felt sharp jealousy stabbing into him. Of course a chance to test his newly acquired relic was the source of his intrigue. The damned thing had completely ensnared Bondrewd’s attention. A stupid trincket became his sworn enemy in seconds.

But he was a good Praying Hand and would forever act appropriately as he could no matter his traitorous thoughts. Gueira awkwardly bent down near the couch, trying to not spill his blood on the white leather and the carpet as it dripped around his fingers. 

Seeming to sense his discomfort, Bondrewd looked to him. “Gueira, you are quite a tall guy. Would you mind sitting near me?” he asked with an air of ease about him, gesturing for Gueira to sit next to him, gently patting the couch’s plush cushion.

He made it sound so simple, so easy. 

Gueira followed his order without any questions, in spite of his heart quickening and sweat, whether cold or hot, blooming along his hairline at the request. Being so close to Bondrewd… how could he come to terms with this? It grew worse, felt even more off when his master peeled off his glove and rolled up his sleeve, revealing rough, damaged skin. 

But he could bear it — as long as Bondrewd’s fingers caressed his arm, followed the lines of veins and old scars, almost tracing them... or teasing him. Then, he touched his wound with the tip of the glowing relic — for a second it was… too cold? Or too warm? So icy it mimicked a burn? Gueira couldn’t tell. Human feelings were of little use to no use when it came to the ancient artifacts plucked from the Abyss. In a few seconds, his injury disappeared, flesh knit back together as flawless as it had been a few hours ago.  
  
All the spilled blood coalesced and disappeared into the relic — as if in payment. 

Bondrewd’s satisfaction and curiosity merely heightened. He leaned forward and grasped Gueira’s arm within his hands without hesitation, turning it over as his probing eyes searched for any hint of a wound or any manner of rebound from a healing artifact. 

“How… how wonderful,” he said, entranced, though his examination remained thorough and meticulous, checking skin and muscles with slim fingers. Bondrewd lingered a little longer with each pass, flesh hot beneath his hands.

“T-thank you, sir.” Gueira cursed his stammer and lackluster reply, but how else could he, with Bondrewd handling him with such tenderness and giving him his full attention? 

Gueira’s eyes couldn’t help but wander, looking to Bondrewd’s chosen body. Aware he was doing anything but appropriate, checking out his master so blatantly. 

His master’s current body originally belonged to a young Moon Whistle. A lean build, slightly muscular, with the clothes that Gueira prepared for him were always a bit too tight in all right places. Pale skin with scars formed by a scalpel. The beasts of the Abyss wouldn’t leave such elegant marks. A few fancy relics inserted here and there, not very useful for combat — they existed to attention and confirm that, yes, their owner is the delver of the Abyss. The average person wouldn’t be so insane as to insert a foreign objects in their body in such a manner. Bondrewd sold an illusion to these people. He put on the facade of humanity, but that's all it was in the end: a facade. 

A finely polished handsome one, though. Of course, not all of his partners were gay and probably cared little about his appearance. But all of them wanted to fuck a White Whistle — a conquest few others could lay claim to. For people like this, sex was hardly about pleasure, even less about emotion. 

Bondrewd, for them, was just another wild beast of the Abyss that they wanted to conquer so much, but failed miserably. Their money, their precious status, their heritage meant nothing in the netherworld. He chose this body not only to please their eyes — he fulfilled their gross fantasies of crushing something beautiful and unreachable.

Bondrewd ran his fingers across the healed skin a final time, drawing his thumb across the pulse point of Gueira’s wrist. “How do you feel?” he asked, and took hold of Gueira’s big arm between his own slender ones in one quick, graceful motion, massaging tense muscles. 

His master was very intent on touching him today. It was… strange, yet again the word _strange_. “Very good,” Gueira lied again, too quickly, caught off guard. He needed to give Bondrewd more. “It—it doesn’t hurt. Is it special? It felt… different this time.” From other healing relics? From his master’s continued closeness?

Bondrewd’s eyes glittered with enthusiasm, lips quirked into a charming smile, but Gueira wasn’t impressed by that trinket no matter what he said. Was it worthy of all the effort spent obtaining it? Healing relics were quite common and relatively cheap. Bondrewd couldn’t have done everything he did for this shiny piece of crap?

His master wasn’t in shortage of his own money, his supply more than plentiful. But his work needed much more than just funds — resources, influence, promotions and support from both Orth’s and his overseas contacts’ higher ups. When everyone is crazy rich, money can’t solve everything. Connections were more important. But it was hard to build relationships with people when the majority of his time Bondrewd spent in the Abyss where a few weeks on the fifth layer were equal to a few months on the surface. Luckily, his insane charisma was enough to pave ways through so many closed doors and his medical skills saved many lives of those who could help him, but some depraved dogs wanted just one thing.

“Excellent, Gueira, it is, in fact, a marvellous find. It’s one of the first relics that was documented. It wasn’t found in the Abyss, it belonged to the native people of the Orth island.”

The ones that were exterminated mercilessly, if Gueira recalled the gruesome tale right. 

“This thing is sentimental for you?” He was surprised to hear it, moreso that he’d unintentionally gotten it right. Regardless of how he flushed at his master’s praise, it was truly surprising to learn this of all the relics he’d acquired over the years, this one held sentimental value when Bondrewd tended to view them as instruments to his cause.

And his master wanted to share it with him today… alone...

“Everything returns to the Abyss. For generation upon generation, it was used on the surface as nothing more pretty jewelry. It's time to return its purpose and give it proper use once more.”

Bondrewd continued to talk about the history of the artifact, how centuries ago it was claimed to be cursed and how in old times family members would kill for the right to wear it. Eventually the relic’s real purpose was lost to time as all who’d known it were rotting in their graves.

Gueira listened, rather, _wanted_ to listen, but his mind had grown foggy and unfocused — focused elsewhere.

What was his master trying to do to him?

Bondrewd’s potent cologne clung to his skin still — a mix of perfume with oxytocin and rare amagiri essence. With a help of a few drops of a special extract in wine, and by the Abyss, even a dead corpse would raise a massive boner under the chemistry of such a cocktail. Gueira wasn’t dead — so far, and he wasn’t an old fuck. How had the scent remained strong as anything though he’d bathed? 

This was fast becoming too much. 

Gueira tried to ignore it and slowed his breath. But the trails of aphrodisiacs, the subtle hints of Bondrewd’s own scent almost soaked the air. And — he could definitely feel the warmth of his body being so close.

“You are oddly calm today, Gueira.” Bondrewd inclined his head, slinking nearer, and if Gueira didn’t know any better, he’d have called it seductive… maybe predatory. “Is anything bothering you? Do you want to talk about this?” Bondrewd’s green eyes seemed to darken at the knowing words.

Gueira held his breath for a second. Bondrewd had caught on. 

All the courage he’d tried to build just fell apart with those simple questions. So many times this talk was supposed to happen, but all words died, trapped in his mind. On top of egoistically wanting his master only for himself, he was a coward now too.

Gueira sighed, uncertain how to respond. What could he even say to his master?

“I thought you enjoyed this routine of ours, but if it upsets you, I can ask Bido or Gyarike for help.”

What? No, why would he ever want that? It was like Bondrewd tailored every word to incite a reaction, _the_ reaction he desired. 

“No, I just… just…” he trailed off, frustrated and humiliated. 

Gueira liked to take care of Bondrewd. And he hated it. 

Deep inside he understood that Idofront needed lots of support, Bondrewd needed relics and his deeds should be covered up by the political giants controlling the surface.

He wasn’t human and the body they were always so eager to fuck wasn’t his. He experienced far worse things when he experimented on himself.

After all, Gueira should never get so attached to his boss and master.

He was just one of many Praying Hands that gave up their bodies and souls for him. There wasn’t anything special about him. He didn’t mind the price he had to pay to stand beside Bondrewd... but he would also pay anything to be able to lie beside him as well.

“You developed feelings for me, haven’t you?” Bondrewd pressed, placing a hand on Gueira’s thigh, eyes twinkling and smiling — smirking? — all the while. 

A few words dropped like a shower of Eternal Fortunes into the Great Pit.

Gueira was speechless.

The bastard knew it. All this time. He knew it, but he continued to toy with him. 

“My, It is not something to be ashamed of, Gueira.”

And had the sheer audacity to say it in such an innocent tone. 

In his wildest dreams Gueira could never imagine himself confessing to Bondrewd. 

There was a moment of silence. 

How had it come to this, so clunky, so damn awkwardly? His eyes burned, threatening him with tears he rapidly blinked away. A wave of vulnerability washed over him with all the things he wanted to say. But instead, he pushed it down, gathering himself once again before he tried to answer.

This was not how Gueira had planned on getting closer to his master — far, far from it.

“Sir, I…” His voice cracked as if Gueira was an awkward teenager, but Bondrewd pushed onwards in his stead. 

“People of your age are so afraid of their emotions. They leave them inside, ‘til they rot, or burn off in pain. Let this old man take care of you.” He squeezed lightly, inching closer to Gueira in the darkness of the room. 

Gueira had to smile despite his master’s uncharacteristic advances. That “old man” looked a few years younger than him, albeit he noticed the sense of wrongness like with these statues in the corridor. His manners, his voice and the way he conducted himself didn’t match such a youthful appearance. The difference was uncanny even. 

“...I’m sorry,” was the only thing he could think to mumble out. 

Gueira lowered his head, letting the fall of his hair obscure his eyes. He heard — never mind felt — his own breathing coming in sharp, quick gasps. It was foolish to let his emotions rule his every thought, but it was too late. He was at war with himself, and no matter where he ended up, disappointment always hit him like a tidal wave. Gueira could hardly believe that he actually meant something to Bondrewd… 

The tension in the room was suffocating.

It was hard to tell with someone whose expressions were as unchanging as Bondrewd's, but Gueira got the impression that he was disappointed.

He stayed silent. That was quite unusual for his master who always knew what to say.

“It’s my fault and I should've reported it early,” Gueira attempted to break the uncomfortable vacuum between them. “But, sir, this isn’t like y—”

In response to his apology, two long fingers slipped under the chin of his mask, laying on the bare flesh of his lips, hushing him. 

“You are a Praying Hand and still managed to fall in love. Wonderful, isn’t it? Love always finds its way.” Bondrewd leaned deeper into his shoulder, clasping his bicep, his grip soothing. “Even though your soul was damaged by the powers of Zoaholic. There is nothing to feel sorry about.” He looked away in thought, and part of Gueira had to wonder how genuine it was, if it was another tease or not. “Sometimes I think it was a mistake to turn you into a Praying Hand. Your love… deserved better.”

Gueira bit his lip, embarrassed. He hadn’t been expecting such a sincere response. Still, this was unlike his master. 

Bondrewd comforted him, made him feel better, but...

A cloud of doubt began to creep up on him, as it always did whenever he got too comfortable in his own skin. He had to be dreaming. He _had_ to. This wasn’t supposed to happen, logically, he knew that Bondrewd likely didn’t treat him any differently than his other Praying Hands, but seeing him now made Gueira’s heart feel impossibly warm. He could’ve sworn that his temperature rose a few degrees amongst other things. 

He could hardly believe that he actually meant something to Bondrewd, and definitely needed a bit of convincing, but once he realized that Bondrewd was being honest about his feelings…

Resting his chin against Gueira’s shoulder as his form seamlessly moulded to his side, Bondrewd said, “Gueira, if my assumption was wrong, I would sincerely apologise.” He nuzzled gently, as if he might bestow a kiss.

“It’s not…”

Him, who never wore a whistle before taking the mask, never deserved his master’s kind words let alone generosity. 

Logically, he knew that there was no way Bondrewd could know the true extent of his feelings. Not with how cautious he’d been to hide them. Still, it did little in slowing the rushes of panic rising within him.

He had nothing of value to return for his master’s kindness. Selfish. He was always so selfish. He was always nothing but a thief, and right now he felt like he stole the place of a better suited candidate. Someone like Bido or Gyarike deserved that closeness to their Lord of Dawn, not an impostor that obtained his mantle and mask by pure luck. 

And certainly not a coward who used his master’s weakened state to feed his impure desires.

“You can do something special for me.” Bondrewd’s insistence grew. “Your capability of love and care sure can serve a better purpose. But this time I want to help you. Even if I’ll never be able to respond to your feelings as a human.”

Something that he could’t find even in the Abyss and something that he forever lost to it.

It felt surreal to hear his master’s words, to know that he cared.

“Sir, you don’t need to…”

Bondrewd kneaded his chest, smile taking on a different edge. “Worry not, I’m not doing this out of pity. They don’t call me a ‘heartless monster’ for no reason. But we have a few more days here and I want to spend them with a young, handsome man who doesn’t need a half dozen different drugs to make his dick work.” The truth in his master’s words was unreal and his language, well… about as strange as the situation itself, Bondrewd’s full eye-roll and the lilt of his caustic tone included. 

A hand came up to rest in his hair, combing loosely through dishevelled curls.

Gueira flinched, startled, so lost he hadn’t noticed Bondrewd removing his mask. Now their helmets sat side by side, together, mirroring their owners.

Gueira’s thoughts were too slow and his brain refused to process what he just heard. He felt himself trembling again like an outsider watching his own body. 

“But what about your research?”

An easy question. Not about himself. Not about… _this_. 

Bondrewd shrugged and huffed. “Too many eyes are watching me, I can’t risk work in an environment like this. I would prefer to spend it with you.”

His hand trailed lower, down the column of Gueira’s neck, over the tight fabric of his suit. They had been sitting pretty close together, but Gueira couldn’t have imagined it’d end up like this.

It was no use. It wasn’t as if he could speak, or even form words, with the sight of Bondrewd’s tight sweatshirt, revealing a pale sliver of his skin. Nor could he breathe with the intoxicating warmth of a delicate hand pressed softly stroking him, radiating comfort at every point of contact. It was warm, where they were connected. The feeling of his master’s body being so close sent a jolt of arousal through him, overtaking the harsh cold needles from piercing his heart.

Yet he felt himself withdraw, words on the tip of his tongue. He was just… He just wanted to make things better… right?

“Gueira, do you remember how we met?” Bondrewd practically whispered in his ear. 

Of course he did. 

Sometimes he wished to forget every second of that shameful event, but the first memory of Bondrewd was too precious for him. He wished he could erase his life prior to it, however, besides his prior disgraceful past years, there was more to him joining the Praying Hands that hindered his joy.

“An expiration date,” — those words forever burnt red in his mind, a grim reminder that he’d better accept his irreversible choices.

“Let us celebrate our wonderful revelation. I owe you a gift, Gueira.” 

With that, his master dispensed of all pretense. 

Bondrewd slung a lithe leg over Gueira’s thighs, easing onto his lap with casual elegance as his hands smoothed over broad shoulders. Pulling himself deeper into Gueira, he leaned into him, laying his chin against/atop a wide shoulder. Bondrewd’s tall, toned body looked so fragile in comparison to his own. Nonetheless, Guiera enjoyed the weight of his master… and how his hips began a gentle rhythm, grinding against his own and rubbing his fast hardening cock. The impossible warmth of his master’s body soaked straight through the delver’s coat he wore, involuntarily causing heat to spread through him. His hot breath tickled the skin of his neck. Gueira held him closer and Bondrewd bounced slightly on his thighs. If his master dared do anything more, he feared he would just burst in his pants — the sharp inhales of his aphrodisiacal cologne hardly helped. 

“Is there anything you want?” Bondrewd’s voice turned to liquid silk, coated in darkness. “ _Of me_?” He mouthed at the tender skin of his neck, tongue lapping up the slight sheen of sweat. The proximity between them was undeniably intimate, but Gueira didn’t respond… didn’t know how to respond.

He was just a servant. Masters shouldn’t be so close to those who exist only to fulfill their needs. It was wrong on all levels, why in the world would someone like Bondrewd take care of him?

But it was clear that he understood his desires better than Gueira himself.

Gueira closed his eyes and let Bondrewd caress him with his right hand. His lips, his cheeks, his chin. He went lower and stroked his collar bones. His vision slowed and blurred as he stared at the perfect paleness of his master’s skin, violated by fresh bruises. It shouldn’t arouse him the way it did, the colours their own brand of attractive. 

Was Bondrewd sitting on the lap of his patrons like this? Did he touch them with the same tenderness? Did he ask them what they want?

Gueira wished he didn’t know the answer.

Bondrewd slid his arm in Gueira pocket, taking a small satchel. He opened and revealed his White Whistle. 

"You’ve done such a good job, exceeded my expectations, even. Will you not let me reward you?” he asked, gazing into Gueira’s eyes as he caressed his cheeks. 

He shut his eyes off in an attempt to avoid eye contact, but he could feel his master staring at him as if Gueira’s body wasn’t covered in layers of clothes. 

"You're so shy,” Bondrewd chuckled, tracing Gueira’s collarbone with his nails, coaxing forth a round of needy shivers, “it's cute.”

He toyed with Gueira, played with him, his caresses and soft breaths endless against cloth and skin. Another languid roll of his hips and Gueira gasped, instinctively rocking back against him.

“Tell me, Gueira, what do you want?”

With a harsh breath he answered.


End file.
